Laughing about Crying

One of the great things about living in Manhattan is that going about your everyday business takes on a certain glamour to outsiders simply because you're living in New York City. Like, you could be getting Chinese takeout, but it's takeout...from Midtown. Or you could be going running, but you're running...in Central Park. It just sounds cooler.

I thought about that when I was crying like a baby over N in the Oyster Bar restaurant last night. I mean, yes, I was drinking a Miller Lite and sobbing into a cocktail napkin while my friend A tried to console me, but I was drinking a Miller Lite and sobbing into a cocktail napkin...in Grand Central Station. That's when I started thinking about all the places I've cried in the city, usually over boys -- N, the Boyf, Evil... Yeah, pretty much just those guys. Here's a list of the ones I can think of off the top of my head:

Grand Central Station's Oyster Bar (N)
The 6 train (N)
The L train (N)
The corner of Grand and Metropolitan in Williamsburg (N)
The elevator of a high-rise in Williamsburg (N)
The lobby of a high-rise in Murray Hill (the Boyf)
The Macy's shoe department (the Boyf)
Rodeo Bar (N)
The Bar that Shall Not Be Named (N, the Boyf)
My workplace in Midtown (N, the Boyf)
My former workplace in Midtown (Evil)
Madison Square Park (the Boyf)
A hardware store in Murray Hill (the Boyf)
Union Pool in Williamsburg (the Boyf)
A bus to Weehawken, New Jersey (Evil)
Various taxis (N, the Boyf, Evil)
A foyer in Nolita (Evil)
The basement of Lolita (the Boyf)
Tavaru (Evil)
Eighth Avenue in the 40s (the Boyf)
The R train (Evil)
Some Naked Lunch-esque bar in the East Village (N)
A good portion of the Upper East Side (N)

I'm sure there are more. So now I will get back to enjoying my ultraglamorous (yet unceremonious) dumping.